


Things He Shouldn't Do

by Hobash



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Food Kink, M/M, Sabriel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobash/pseuds/Hobash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's really, sort of, entirely Dean's fault.</p><p>Based on a Tumblr prompt asking for Sam provocatively eating bananas and Gabriel reacting to Sam provocatively eating bananas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things He Shouldn't Do

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time actually writing anything for the Supernatural fandom, so I hope it's all right. I'd love feedback!

It’s really, sort of, entirely Dean’s fault.

The argument, like most of their arguments, starts after a hunt. It had been a bitch of a hunt, beginning with two false leads and ending with him and Dean, bruised, sprained, and only _just_ managing to escape from something they _still_ can’t identify, a sort of ghost/demon hybrid that Sam really doesn’t want to spend too much time thinking about. 

They stop at a 24-hour grocery store on the way back to the motel, aisles of white linoleum and fluorescent lighting aggravating Sam’s already bad mood. The purpose behind the trip is to stock up on necessities, which by Dean’s definition mainly consist of cheap deodorant and cheaper whiskey, but Sam finds himself pausing as he walks through the produce section, bins of fruit and vegetables creating a patterned maze around him. He hesitates for a fraction of a second before impulsively picking up a bunch of bananas and slinging them into the basket next to the Jack Daniels. 

Dean’s jaw locks, but he doesn’t say anything. Not when they’re standing in line getting checked out by a middle-aged woman whose facial expression suggests that she considers herself ridiculously underpaid for the amount of shit she puts up with on a nightly basis. Not during the car ride back to the hotel, with the knob on the dashboard’s radio a few notable notches higher than it was on the ride to the store. Not even when they haul their purchases in from the car to the motel room and Dean immediately twists off the cap of the whiskey, taking a swig straight from the bottle before Sam has even finished setting down bags.

It’s only when Sam joins Dean at the lackluster table provided by the motel and wordlessly offers him one of the bananas that the irritation finally breaks the surface and he speaks.

“Not hungry.”

Rather than withdrawing, Sam sets the banana passive aggressively on the table in front of Dean. He ignores his own mental warning telling him to back off, that Dean’s in one of his Dean Moods and he should just put his head down, wait for it to pass, and try, as much as possible, to minimize any damage along the way.

What he does, instead, is say, “You need to eat, Dean.”

“Not that crap.” Dean takes another large swig of whiskey and eyes the banana in front of him with his lip curled in wary distaste, like he’s never actually seen one before but has heard plenty of stories and knows to keep his distance. 

“It’s a _banana_ , Dean,” Sam sighs, still pushing because maybe he’s just as bad as his brother. “It’s good for you. It wouldn’t kill you to eat something healthy every once in a while.”  


Dean huffs out a humorless laugh.

“Nothin’ wrong with a good old cheeseburger and fries.” He leans back in his chair and curls a fist protectively over the whiskey bottle on the table in front of him. He fixes Sam with a purposefully bland expression, popping his jaw lazily back and forth a few times as he adds quietly, “Always suited me fine before.”

And this is what it comes down to, what Sam is starting to think it will always come down to. For someone whose communication is comprised almost entirely of barked orders and overt threats, Dean’s surprisingly good at implications and this one is clear: Sam, with his _bananas_ , has _never_ wanted this lifestyle, never been _cut out_ for this lifestyle, and Dean clearly views the banana sitting innocuously on the table between them as some act of residual rebellion, a refusal to adhere to the cheap-motels-and-fast-food hunter way of life that was always good enough for their dad, always good enough for Dean. It’s like by picking out produce, Sam has threatened his brother with abandonment, as though the act bears the same significance as Sam standing up from the table right now and packing his bags (figure of speech; they each only own one bag and they never really _un_ pack to begin with). 

But it’s not entirely the shitty hunt that’s to blame and it’s not entirely the bananas. Sam’s noticing more and more that Dean only ever really gets like this, this passive-aggressive itching for a fight, when Cas isn’t around. He becomes restless, gruff, more anti-social than he usually is. Sam isn’t entirely sure how his brother and the angel define their relationship, isn’t entirely sure they have a _relationship_ to define, but he does know that Cas, by way of long stares and questioning head tilts, is a kind of grounding center for Dean and when he’s not around, when he’s off doing whatever the hell it is that angels do in their spare time, Dean spins apart. 

Which is why Sam ultimately relents, accepts Dean’s final, convincing argument of _“Not eatin’ it, Sam,”_ and lets him take the bottle of whiskey with him when he leaves the motel room, slamming the door behind him. When Sam pulls aside motel’s waxy-feeling curtains and peers out of the window a minute later, it’s to see his brother’s silhouette perched on the hood of the Impala, facing out against the neon light of the motel’s vacancy sign.

Sam lets the curtain fall closed softly and turns to face the motel table. He’s got five bananas sitting in front of him and an innate urge to eat all of them, a need no doubt born out of a childhood built on limited funds and constant orders not to waste food.

Sighing in defeat, he walks to where his bag sits on the floor and pulls out his laptop, setting it on the table and pressing the power button. The out-of-date machine whirs softly to life as Sam settles himself in and reaches for the banana that Dean rejected, pulling down the peel and beginning to eat.

He’s reading up on banshees, two bananas down and already feeling the strain, when he abruptly becomes aware of a tension in the air. He turns his head slowly to the side and sure enough, there’s Gabriel, reclined on the motel bed nearest the table, legs crossed and torso propped lazily against the headboard with his hands folded neatly in his lap.  
He raises his eyebrows innocently when Sam catches his eye. 

“Don’t stop on my behalf,” he says calmly, shifting his shoulders against the headboard like he’s settling in.

Sam could probably put up a fight. He could tell Gabriel that he’s busy, that he’s not in the mood for whatever passes as the archangel’s “help,” that Dean could walk in any second and wouldn’t be pleased at the sight of Gabriel on his bed. But he doesn’t. And it’s not even because Gabriel is a damn near all-powerful deity and Sam can’t actually make him do a damn thing he doesn’t want to do, it’s just because Gabriel is _Gabriel_. Sam has a feeling that even if Gabriel didn’t have the power to crumble mountains and raise oceans, if he was just a regular guy in a canvas jacket, standing a good foot shorter than Sam, Sam _still_ couldn’t make him do a damn thing he didn’t want to do. 

So instead he just shakes his head and reaches for another banana, turning his attention back to the screen and committing to memory the meanings behind differing banshee screams. 

Five minutes pass in this way, and then ten. Sam alternately eats and researches, doing his best to ignore the quiet sound of fabric rustling each time Gabriel shifts on the bed. It’s at the fifteen minute mark, when Gabriel begins adding soft, insistent sighs to his repertoire, that Sam finally gives in and humors him, tossing aside the peel of his third banana and turning in his chair to face the archangel.

“Did you need something, Gabriel?”

“Me?” Gabriel asks surprised, like he’s _ever_ shown up without a purpose, ever popped in just to hang out with the Winchesters. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, walking over to stand behind Sam and peering over his shoulder at the computer screen. “Just here for moral support, kiddo,” he drawls easily.

“Right.” Sam can feel Gabriel’s presence behind him, warm and humming. He clears his throat and grabs another banana, beginning to peel it.

“Cripes, Sammy,” Gabriel breathes into his ear, breath fanning over the nape of Sam’s neck as he lets out a small huff of laughter. He walks around the table, plopping himself into the chair opposite Sam, legs spread wide, and raises an eyebrow. “You ever get tired of eating those things?”

Sam looks to the banana in his hand and tries to think of a way to say that he’s eating five bananas on principle that won’t sound as stupid out loud as it does in his head.  


“I like eating bananas,” is what he finally comes up with.

Gabriel hums his agreement low in his throat. He cocks his head slowly to the side, narrowing his eyes in thought as he regards Sam. “I like it when you eat bananas, too.”

Sam pauses where he’s got the tip of the banana in his mouth. He meets Gabriel’s eyes and abruptly becomes aware of the suggestiveness of the position, the suggestiveness of bananas in general (really, when he said _“I like eating bananas,”_ he might as well have just saved time and said _“I like sucking dick.”_ ). He’s been unconsciously giving fruit a blow job for the past twenty minutes and, more to the point, Gabriel has been sitting and _watching_ him give fruit a blowjob for the past twenty minutes. 

He slides his mouth up and off of the banana, intending to firmly put an end to the scene he’s unintentionally created, but realizes as he’s dragging his lips up (while still holding eye contact with Gabriel, Jesus Christ, what is _wrong_ with him?) that he may have just made things worse.

He swallows dryly and looks down at the banana still clenched in his hand.

“You can turn anything sexual, can’t you?” he asks and while he means for it to sound slightly condescending and annoyed, like Gabriel’s doing nothing more than trying his patience, he can tell that he doesn’t quite make it; there’s too much breath in his voice, it’s nowhere near grounded enough.

“You’re deep-throating a banana, kiddo,” Gabriel deadpans quietly back to him, corner of his mouth twitching up. “Doesn’t take a lot of searching to find the innuendo.”

Sam just shakes his head. He feels like he should really do something with the god damn banana in his hand, but has no idea what; everything suddenly seems too laden with implications. 

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re full now,” Gabriel tsks quietly. He reaches forward and closes his hand around Sam’s, sliding his fingers into the spaces between Sam’s fingers and deftly sliding the banana out of his grip. “There are starving children all over the world, Sammy.”

He settles back in his chair and Sam watches as he raises the banana to his lips, closing them sloppily around the tip of it before taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully, side of his cheek bulging obscenely as he patiently regards Sam. 

This is the problem with Gabriel. He’s nothing but a long line of instances where Sam should have put his foot down and yet didn’t. Sam and Dean and Cas should never have accepted the trickster’s help to _begin_ with. Sam should never have let Gabriel begin hanging around him, shouldn’t have unconsciously made the shift from absolutely hating the archangel to grudgingly laughing at the unending stream of puns and innuendos that trickle out of him. Sam shouldn’t keep eating the candy bars that continually show up on the nightstand of every motel he and Dean stay at---always Sam’s favorite kind and only ever when Dean’s in the shower---, he shouldn’t smile to himself when he makes a quick drive to the gas station for lighter fluid before a salt-and-burn and every single radio station he tries to tune the Impala to is somehow playing “Angel of the Morning” simultaneously. 

There are a lot of things that Sam shouldn’t do. 

Gabriel’s still staring at him, smiling lazy and open. Half the banana is gone now and he leans across the table, wordlessly offering the remaining half back to Sam with an outstretched hand. 

Sam sees this moment like an unidentified point on a timeline, the caption beneath it still blank, still waiting for a description: The Moment He Did or The Moment He Didn’t. 

He should draw a line. He can think of a thousand ways to do it and a part of him knows innately that if he _did_ try to put a stop to whatever the hell is happening here, Gabriel would let him. That if Sam met Gabriel’s eyes and asserted, sternly, that he’s _really not hungry, Gabriel,_ the archangel would just shrug easily---in the same way that he does _everything_ easily---and lean back in his chair again, that same shit-eating smirk on his face, like he’s in control of everything, that nothing happens that he doesn’t personally will to happen.

Maybe it’s that sense of inevitability---Gabriel’s will be done---, but Sam finds himself reaching forward and taking the half-eaten banana out of Gabriel’s hand.  


The small smile doesn’t drop off of Gabriel’s face, but the fingers of his unoccupied hand, which had previously been tapping idly on the tabletop, still. He raises his chin up a fraction, regarding Sam passively, waiting.

Sam takes a deep breath and closes his lips around the tip of the banana, trying to ignore the fruity taste and the way it drives home the absolute _ridiculousness_ of what he’s actually doing. He dips his head, taking more of it into his mouth. He holds Gabriel’s eye as he drags his mouth slowly up the length of the banana, hollowing his cheeks as he does so.

 _“Sam.”_ Gabriel’s voice is clipped, tense, and Sam feels a rush of power at the crack in his façade. 

Emboldened, he repeats the movement, beginning to bob his head up and down shallowly on the few inches of banana that stick out of the peel. He lets his eyes drop closed and gives himself over to it more fully, breathing loudly through his nose as he sucks and letting out a breathy little groan around the banana in his mouth.

Before he even realizes what’s happening, his equilibrium is thrown off and he grunts, grappling desperately for the arms of the chair he’s sitting in to stave off the sudden sensation of falling. His chair has been pivoted away from the table by an unseen force and is now facing out into the room. Gabriel stands in front of him, hovering over where he sits, and it’s only when Sam sees the banana in the archangel’s hand that he realizes it’s no longer in his mouth.

“Sam,” Gabriel repeats, leaning down and bracing himself on one of the arms of Sam’s chair with his free hand. His face is inches from Sam’s and his eyes are gold, not brown, but _gold_. “What are you doing?”

Sam both doesn’t know and doesn’t want to think about it. There’s sweetness in his mouth and Gabriel’s breath, when it huffs across his face, carries the same sugary musk, so maybe Sam just gets confused. Maybe it seems like whatever is going to happen has happened already, that he’s already given in, but whatever the justification, Sam lets himself stop thinking entirely. He takes a deep breath, and closes the gap between them. 

Gabriel doesn’t kiss him back, not right away. His mouth twitches against Sam’s, and his head moves back slightly, like he’s starting to pull away, but then, suddenly, something snaps and Gabriel is pressing into him, is all around him, feels like a _part_ of him. A hand comes up to tangle in Sam’s hair, rough and demanding, fingers pulling and angling Sam’s head as Gabriel slides his lips against his.

“What,” Gabriel repeats against Sam’s lips, pausing to scrape his teeth softly against Sam’s bottom lip, “are you doing, Sam?”

Sam just widens his legs, creating a V shape that Gabriel immediately steps into, and whines softly against Gabriel’s lips. He’s half-hard, his pants tenting unapologetically at his zipper, and he might be embarrassed by that fact if it weren’t for the almost identical bulge at the front of Gabriel’s jeans.

“What do you want, Sam?” Gabriel asks and this, Sam actually knows how to answer. Questions of _what_ are easy. It’s the questions of _why_ that trip Sam up. 

“I want this,” Sam breathes out. The canvas of Gabriel’s jacket is rough beneath his fingers when he digs into Gabriel’s waist, and part of him is surprised to feel substance beneath the fabric, actual flesh and bone, as artificial and constructed as it may be. It’s a surprise that Gabriel, who’s so removed and so far above it all, can also be warm and solid beneath Sam’s hands, and Sam thinks it might just be the truest thing he’s ever spoken when he whispers, “I want you.”

Gabriel exhales harshly against Sam’s mouth and kisses him harder. It’s possible that there’s more than a little Grace being used (it’s also possible that Sam’s just too far gone to keep a grasp on irrelevant things like time), but suddenly the banana in Gabriel’s hand is gone, Sam’s shirt is unbuttoned, and Gabriel’s hands are mapping out his skin, tracing up and spreading out, soft fingers and sturdy palms running down Sam’s ribs, across his abs. Sam arches his back into it, groans a little when Gabriel’s thumbs begin tracing small circles around his nipples, raising them before deftly flicking over them, steadily back and forth. 

“Is this what you want?” Gabriel asks by Sam’s ear. There’s wet heat against his skin as Gabriel licks a slow line up the shell before moving down and fastening his lips, teeth, tongue, on a patch of skin just below Sam’s jaw and beginning to suck.

Sam nods, pushes out a strained yes. One of Gabriel’s hands shifts lower on his stomach and a finger slides into the waistband of Sam’s pants, tracing teasingly over the skin beneath it. Sam lifts his hips subtly (assuming a pelvic thrust could ever fall into the category of _subtle_ ), wanting and asking for more, and Gabriel complies. He pulls off of Sam’s neck and they both watch, chests rising and falling rapidly, as his fingers undo the button of Sam’s pants and slide down the zipper.

Gabriel lets out a small chuckle when Sam’s erection bobs out of his briefs, straining up toward his stomach, and before Sam can be offended that Gabriel’s first response to his penis is laughter, Gabriel’s hand is wrapped around Sam’s shaft and he’s stroking him slowly, twisting his hand around the head of Sam’s cock.

“Eager, kiddo?” Gabriel whispers teasingly, but even as he speaks, he’s watching the movements of his hand on Sam’s cock, and judging by the look in his eye, hungry and possessive, it’s more than a little clear that Sam’s not the only one.

The noise from Gabriel jacking him off is embarrassingly loud in the quiet motel room and Sam is almost embarrassingly turned on by the lewdness of it, the slick, wet sounds accompanying the drag against his cock. He lets his head drop back in the chair and spreads his legs further apart as he moans aloud, pushing his hips up into the tightness of Gabriel’s fist. Seconds later, he feels Gabriel’s mouth on the exposed column of his neck, nipping and licking at his Adam’s apple, and it’s almost too much, the heat of the angel’s tongue, the unrelenting twist-tug on his cock.

“Fuck, Gabriel,” Sam whines as Gabriel moves down to kiss across Sam’s chest. His mouth trails lower and when Sam lifts his head up again and opens his eyes, he sees Gabriel on his knees between his legs, looking up at Sam with a raised eyebrow. He slows his hand on Sam’s cock until he’s just barely moving it at all, more appreciation than actual intent.  


Sam lets out a little grunt of frustration and tries to push his hips up into Gabriel’s palm, but Gabriel rests a hand on Sam’s lower abdomen, gentle but with enough angelic power behind it to render Sam completely immobile.

 _“Gabriel.”_

Gabriel, always himself, just smirks up at him. He leans forward and traces a slow circle around the head of Sam’s cock with his tongue.

Sam doesn’t even care about the put-a-pornstar-to-shame moan that comes out of him. Doesn’t care that motel walls are paper thin at best. Doesn’t care that Dean has been outside for a while now and even whiskey and brooding can only keep him occupied for so long. All he cares about is Gabriel’s mouth around his cock, the way the archangel apparently doesn’t have a gag reflex as he lowers his head and swallows around Sam, staring up at him the entire time.

“Oh, _fuck,_ Gabriel.” Sam’s body is flashing with heat, hot/cold shivers and twitches, and his stomach is tightening to match the ache in his cock, in the heavy weight of his sac. Gabriel just continues his movements, head bobbing up and down, tongue swirling around Sam’s cock, tracing over a vein. 

Sam reaches out and, with his thumb, brushes lightly over Gabriel’s cheek first and then down to where Gabriel’s lips are stretched around his length. Gabriel groans into it, eyes falling shut as he picks up his pace, and when his fingers dig in where they’re braced on Sam’s thighs, Sam lets himself go completely. He comes in a shuddering rush, hips stuttering up as his mouth opens around a silent moan and his head drops back against the chair. Gabriel swallows through it, coaxing everything out of Sam, until he’s boneless and spent, a heap of loose muscles slumped in a motel chair.

Gabriel pulls off of him, tucks him neatly back into his pants, and stands up, dusting what might or might not be imaginary dirt off of his knees. 

Sam’s on his way back to coherency, and is about to offer to do something about the bulge that’s still prominent in Gabriel’s pants (despite the questionable nature of the motel carpet, the idea of getting on his knees for the archangel, or having _Gabriel_ in his _mouth_ , is unexpectedly appealing) when Gabriel pauses, glancing briefly to the closed door of the motel room and narrowing his eyes before looking back to Sam. 

“Looks like the party’s over, kiddo,” he says with a rueful smile and a thumb pointed at the door behind him. “Big brother is on his way back. Rain check?”

Sam nods dumbly and Gabriel lets out a quiet breath of laughter. He reaches down and runs a thumb over Sam’s bottom lip, following the movement with his eyes.  


“I’m holding you to that, Winchester.”

A loud snap echoes in the quiet room and Sam’s alone for half a second until the motel door opens and Dean stumbles in. He sets the bottle of whiskey, significantly lighter than it had been when Dean left, on the table beside Sam and starts toward his bed before he stops and turns around, a confused expression on his face as he eyes the table.

“Jesus, Sammy, how many of those bananas did you eat?”

Sam turns to look at the pile of discarded peels. “A few.”

Dean just stares at him for a few long seconds before shaking his head in exasperation and collapsing, facedown, onto the motel bed. Sam swears he hears mutters of _“don’t wanna hear you bitchin’ about a stomachache tomorrow”_ from where Dean’s face is currently smashed into the pillow beneath him.

Laughing to himself (Dean’s behavior is infinitely more endearing post-blowjob), Sam turns back to his neglected laptop, intending to shut it down and pass out himself, but stops. Stretched out over the keys is a bite-sized candy bar and Sam grins as he picks it up, just staring down at it for a few seconds before unwrapping it and popping it in his mouth, the taste of chocolate blending with the lingering tang of banana.


End file.
